


I'm coming for you and I'm making war

by idioticfangirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Clint is so cute, F/M, How They Met, Just friends if that's how you wanna read it tbh, Pre-Relationship, Rats are involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idioticfangirl/pseuds/idioticfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers ask Clint how Natasha ended up working for SHIELD, beyond the standard 'I was sent to kill her, I made a different call'.  So, this is the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm coming for you and I'm making war

It was an honour for Clint to have been chosen for this mission. Over the years, he had built up quite a reputation at SHIELD, the ex-circus marksman that no-one expected to be quite as good at spying as he was, but here he was. There had been some questions raised about whether he was ready, because no matter how good you get Coulson would always err on the side of caution, and, as his handler, had the power to prevent or at least drastically change an assignment. But, after a long talk with Fury, Coulson had walked out of the office throwing a file at Clint, telling him to 'read up on his mark'.

Clint had taken many vows, to himself and to Fury, and keeping them all in his head was sometimes too much, forgetting a few here and there only to remember them after they had been broken. But two stood out in his mind. To serve SHIELD and protect his country or die trying, and to not take a life.

"Wait," he took off after Coulson, who never walked at anything more or less than a brisk, busy stroll, "what am I meant to do?"

"You're going to kill her, Barton." Coulson replied, "Before she kills one of us." Clint glanced back down at the file, taking in the blurred picture and dangerous code name.

"But what has she done?"

"She's an assassin, Barton, and she has to be taken down. Are you taking the job or shall I pass it on to someone else?"

"Sure," more out of pride than anything else, he agreed, "I'll kill Black Widow."

 

 

"Great," Natasha thought to herself, "they've sent another clown to kill me. I hope he's better than the last." It was slightly ironic, she reflected as she packed up her things, ready to leave the empty apartment she had made home in if need be, that in her attempt to escape the life of a murderous assassin she had ended up killing a whole lot of people. At least this time they knew what was coming for them.

She still had a few contacts back in Russia, old colleagues who would probably be more than happy to feed her information on who was coming after her and what their weaknesses were, but that was risky. Despite her fearsome reputation all it took was one person to decide handing her over to the law would give a hefty reward and she would be even more screwed than she was now. Plus, she had to admit, it was almost fun, taunting the suckers to see how far they got before they realised that she was always at least one step ahead.

The first thing she noticed about this new one was how different he was to the others. In stark contrast to their efficient stalking, their ordered patterns that made them so easy to defeat, this new one was messy, different, unpredictable. Dangerous.

The only reason that she had survived this long in the harsh wilderness was her training, but she didn't have it in her to be thankful. Her training was also the only reason that she was stuck in this mess in the first place. It was also to be her downfall unless she learnt to adapt to this new method of stalking, because surely it was a method and they hadn't just sent a novice to capture her. So she spent days at a time, watching him watching her, trying to work out who he was and who had sent him, because it always paid to know who wanted her dead this time. 

During this time, she learnt many things about him. She learnt how he liked his coffee (with no milk and enough sugar to kill a small child), and that his handler was called 'Coulson' and didn't approve of the sarcastic remarks he would make over comms, although the man claimed that it was 'just bant'. She learnt that his main weapon was the bow and arrow, and, from the way he would sometimes wink seemingly into the ether after a particularly witty remark at Coulson, she learnt that he knew she was watching him.

Out of habit, she filed these facts about him away, in case they were needed, but deep down she doubted that they ever would be. Because Natasha learnt something else about the man sent to kill her. He really, really, didn't want to.

 

 

So yeah, Clint reflected to himself, maybe he was wasting time. His target had been staying in an apartment when he had first tracked her down, and he had been prepared to spend a few days watching her, trying to become accustomed to her habits so that he knew if there were any other threats in the vicinity. Unfortunately for him, she was good, and he had barely been watching her an hour before she had fled into the woods. Unfortunately for her, the woods were his haven, and he had found her within the next hour.

Since finding her, they appeared to be playing a strange game of watching each other whilst pretending they were being subtle. It was clear to him that she was watching him, warily trying to work out flaws in his method, and it was clear to her that there was no use running. Everytime she ran, he found her. Like he said, the woods were his haven.

A few times Clint had run it past Coulson - hey, what if, y'know, we don't kill her? But Coulson had shot the suggestion down each time, and ordered Clint to get on with it and shoot her down, and Clint said yeah, of course, all in good time. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Agent," Coulson's voice came through the comm unit, and Clint was proud to say he didn't jump in fright when that happened anymore, "you have a clear shot. Take her down."

"Coulson, my man!" Clint leaned back from his perch on a tree branch, lolling his head to one side, "I haven't spoken to you in ages, dude, how's it going?" With the hand that he wasn't propping himself up with, he surreptitiously motioned for Black Widow to get down.

"Just take the shot agent. She's right there."

Clint sat up sharply, making a big show of looking in every direction in a hunt for the woman he was meant to have killed by now. "Is she, Coulson? I gotta say, man, I can't see her anywhere." He scratched his head as he studiously avoided looking at the spot he knew she would be crouching in, just out of sight. "Are you sure you didn't see someone else?"

Coulson sighed dramatically, signing off with a last mutter of, "Tomorrow is Halloween, Clint. I want to be back in America for Bonfire Night. I have a job to do and so do you. She dies tomorrow, or we send someone else." 

All hint of good humour gone, Clint leaned uneasily back into his tree, wondering how he was going to carry out the job.

 

 

That conversation was the beginning of the end, Natasha knew. She knew from the moment her assassin stopped talking but didn't motion at her to get back up, the moment he stared at his bow and arrows, beloved weapons, as though he had no idea where they came from and didn't want to. 

While he was preoccupied, she silently rose, gathered her things and retreated further into the forest. For the first time since the night he had arrived, she felt afraid.

 

 

"Agent, have you made a decision?"

Clint's voice was monotone when he answered. "Tomorrow is Halloween, sir. Her screams won't register over those of the happy children. Her blood will blend in. I will do it tomorrow night." He signed off before Coulson could approve or disprove of his plan.

 

Heart thumping in time to the pounding of her feet against the rough terrain, Natasha ran. It was Halloween night, the night when the doorway between the worlds of the living and the dead was partially open, or so she had been taught, and for some reason these superstitions brought comfort to her as she sprinted for her life, breath coming in ragged pants and calves burning. Even if he did kill her, she wouldn't have far to travel before she was in the next world. Maybe it would be kinder to her than this.

A twig cracked behind her, and she half-turned on impulse, muscles in her arms tensing as she prepared for a fight. There was no-one there, however, and she couldn't even take a second to catch her breath or try to relieve the stinging in the soles of her feet as she continued in her flight. With anyone else, she wouldn't have taken this risk, running would only tire her out and make fighting more difficult, but the man was good with a bow and arrow, and not even her superior reflexes would be able to save her from every shot he made. She had barely survived the earlier onslaught, in fact she had a nick on her right arm to remember it by, the knee-jerk way she had reacted to the whistling sound in the air as she rolled up and away, sprinting in a zig-zag pattern before her brain even had time to register that she was being shot at, and by whom.

She had hoped that, this deep in the forest where even the light from the moon was blocked by menacing trees, the man would give up, or at least slow down, but she could not let her life rest on hope. Another twig cracked, seemingly closer this time, and Natasha cursed in Russian. 

Then something loomed in front of her, appearing so suddenly in the darkness, and her frown twisted into what could almost be called a smile as, in true cliche Halloween fashion, she darted into an abandoned shack. 

The shack was split into three sections which, with some generosity, could be considered rooms. The walls appeared to be rotting, and the doorway for one of the 'rooms' had been covered by something which was either heavily broken glass or a mass of spider's webs, but a large hole in the wall meant one could get in anyway. She opted for the room which had a usable door, more because it was the room he wouldn't expect her to try to hide in than anything else, and swiftly took cover behind an armchair which, judging by the way it was wriggling, had maggots in. She cringed, but there was no time for her to find a less disgusting hiding place, as footsteps in the doorway alerted her to her assassin's presence. Hardly daring to breathe, Natasha waited.

After a few seconds of strained silence, the man cursed and turned to check out the other room, giving Natasha just the chance she needed. She was halfway out of the door and away from the creepy house with its infestation of creepy crawlies and mould when she heard an ear-piercing scream from inside the shack.

Natasha froze, her instincts warring with each other. On the one hand, if the man that was trying to kill her was somehow in danger, it gave her an opportunity to get away, maybe forever if whatever-it-was killed him. On the other hand, he had been almost kind to her, could have killed her so many times but never did, surely she owed it to him to prevent his death?

She could have stayed there for hours, but one strike of logic made up her mind. Whoever was in the shack might want to hurt her, and her attacker might have got in the way, so she had to find out who they were. With that, she twisted back into the house, ready to save her assassin.

He was still shrieking as she entered, which made it easier for her to locate him. He was in the room that you had to crawl through a hole to get into, which, in retrospect, was a good place to lie in wait for someone if you wanted to capture them. But why was he still being allowed to scream? They were far from everyone, sure, but no good assassin would take a chance as loud as these pained yelps, so what were they doing? Torture, maybe? She pushed on, gingerly crawling through the hole and relying on the element of surprise.

There was a crack in the wall, allowing a sliver of moonlight in, just enough to highlight the strange scene in front of her. The man that had nearly killed her with a deadly bow and arrow, the man that was a trained assassin, was hanging from breaking ceiling rafters with one hand, using the other to point at a small something on the ground, all whilst shrieking at a pitch high enough to break glass, or eardrums. And the object he was pointing to, sitting perfectly still as though it was wondering what on Earth was happening (and to be fair, she was too) was...a mouse?

"Rat!" He yelled, and she frowned, trying to work out why that would possibly be scaring him in this way. Almost without thinking, however, she bent down and gently shooed to offending rodent out of the room, beginning to straighten up before pausing. She turned, facing the man, and they made eye contact for a solid minute, both unsure of the etiquette involved in this particular situation. Eventually, he grimaced, and held out a hand for her to shake. "I'm Clint?" He sounded almost questioning. Natasha eyed the hand warily, not trusting him even though there was no way he had engineered this set of circumstances, but was prevented from making a decision by the rafter breaking with a creaking groan, leaving Clint to fall in a heap on the floor.

She used those seconds to crawl out of the room, although she could feel him hot on her heels. He crawled out mere moments after Natasha, and she sighed as she faced him once more, hands half raised to defend herself if necessary, but he shook his head.

"Just go," the man - Clint? - muttered, still shaking his head. 

"Really?"

"I'm not a killer. Not now, anyway. My agent, well, he won't understand, but he won't push it. I can't promise your safety beyond tonight, but I've hurt my ankle and honestly I just want to sleep. Truce?"

Technically she could have pushed him, fought him now while he wasn't at full strength, but he still had his bow and arrow, and she got the feeling he was significantly less injured than he was letting on. So, once again, she turned to leave, calling one word over her shoulder as she did so.

"Natasha."

 

"It was huge, Coulson!" Clint laid back in his tree, holding his hands out in a gross overexaggeration of the size of the rat he had had to face even though Coulson probably wasn't watching. "What was I meant to do?"

"She went back in. You could have finished her off, Agent Barton, you know that as well as I do."

"I was in shock! I swear I had, like PTSD or some shit, this rat was insanely big. It might have given me rabies, do they still do rabies shots?"

"You haven't got rabies, Agent," Coulson sounded frustrated, but his earlier anger was gone. "I'll let you off this once, but no more stupid mistakes. Kill her."

"I have to find her first," even trying to sound grim, Clint couldn't help the smile in his voice. If she was smart, and she definitely was, she would be far away by now.

 

It had been days since Halloween, and Natasha was feeling slightly more comfortable in the knowledge that Clint hadn't found her yet. She had moved all the way across the country, was wearing a wig and make-up and fake glasses, was doing pretty much anything to avoid another show-down with him, when she felt that familiar feeling again. The feeling of being watched.

It didn't take her long to figure out that this was different, however. Once again she was back to the regular, strict method, which meant it wasn't Clint. She had a new assassin. At first she assumed that whatever organisation Clint had come from - because, despite how mouthy he was, he had never let anything slip - had given up on him and were sending new assassins, until she caught a glimpse of one of them, spotting their reflection in a shop window.

If a replacement of Clint was the best-case outcome, this was the worst. Because she recognised them. These men worked for the Soviet Government, had trained with her throughout most of her years. And this led to two problems.

One, they knew a lot of her tricks. Two, and more pressingly, she knew that they would not be sent alone. At least 10 men would have been sent to capture, torture, kidnap and/or kill her. Natasha set her shoulders and walked briskly away, mentally preparing to spend the next few hours readying herself for the imminent fight, even if there was no way that she could win.

 

It was worse, Natasha reflected, even worse than she had expected. The few hours she had counted on before they chose to make a move had in reality been thirty minutes before one of them was banging down her door and another smashing through the window, cornering her in this shitty apartment that she had managed to rent from a dodgy man on the promise that nothing would be broken, a promise that she had never expected to keep but the memory of which filled her with slightly more anger than was there already.

Her anger fuelled her when her strength failed, struggling against the 10 men and 2 women who had been trained for exactly these situations in the same way that she had, and in this particular set of circumstances quantity would always win. Whenever she knocked someone down, there was another to take their place, and by the time she'd knocked them down the first was back up and waiting for another chance. Unlike in movies, there was no polite one-on-one, all 12 of them ganging up on her at once and raining down on her in a shower of fists and legs and hopelessness.

And then one stumbled, coughed, grabbed his chest, and fell almost on top of her.

He had an arrow in his back.

They started dropping like flies, all with arrows in them, none of them standing a chance. The looks of surprise on the faces of the deceased caused a thrill of laughter to bubble inside her, and those not yet dead were too busy looking for their other attacker in confusion to notice Natasha still standing there, not going down despite the deadly sniper aiming at them, and they were soon dead too.

Only when there were 12 dead bodies on the floor of the apartment did Clint swing in through the broken window, landing steadily on his feet and looking around in distaste. "I think the carpet is actually improved by the bloodstains, don't you?" Was his only comment.

"W-what?"

"The carpet? It's hideous."

"Yeah, no, I mean, it is yeah but, what are you doing? What have you done?"

"Oh," he shrugged like the dead were no big deal, "you saved me from a rat, so I thought I'd save you from some." He paused, turning slightly pale, "I've never killed anyone before." Then he unfroze, shaking his head. "They deserved it, though."

"Don't you want me dead?" This was a leading question, she knew. Dangerous to ask when he seemed to have forgotten, but she had to know what was going on. Assassins were never normally this confusing, for all their many flaws, at least they had a clear objective.

"Oh yeah," he shrugged again, something he seemed to do a lot, "made a different call. Coulson agrees, if you believe it, so. I work for SHIELD, an organisation in the -"

"Yeah, I know." She hadn't known they wanted her dead.

"Right. And, if you say yes, you can work for SHIELD too. Me and Coulson will vouch for you, and Fury is a big softie really - don't tell him I said that though. If you say no, though," he bit his lip, "Coulson has a gun aimed at you right now. I might not be able to save you from that."

"No need," even without the added 'incentive', Natasha knew a good deal when she saw one. And, strange as it sounded, she trusted Clint. "I'm in."

"Great!"

 

True to Clint's word, he and Coulson vouched for Natasha. Not that it really mattered, Fury took one look at the paperwork, waved a dismissive hand at Coulson and said, "You handle the PR."

........................................................

"And that," Clint finished with a shit-eating grin, "is how Nat ended up working for SHIELD."

"I'm sure you exaggerated some bits," she laughed, but, looking around at the Avengers sitting rapt around them, listening to the story, she would never regret that decision.


End file.
